


Stock Lines

by pyalgroundblz (acidtonguejenny)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidtonguejenny/pseuds/pyalgroundblz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sorry lass, I've got important things to do." Screw that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stock Lines

**Author's Note:**

> To read about your own fem!Dragonborn, find and replace 'Akeed' :D

"Sorry lass, I've got important things to do."

He could skewer himself with his own dagger for the look of surprised hurt his newly made Guildmaster gives him for that. Brynjolf settles for putting distance between himself and that damned expression.

The truth is, he isn't sure how to hold himself in relation to her. Once her mentor, now no longer. Her superior, now surpassed. Lastly her partner in Nocturne's shadowed affairs, but he's returned his borrowed armor, his temporary title while she yet retains hers. 

It would be false of him to say he was not intimidated, as if he were a spotted-face youth, taste of his mother's milk still in his mouth. Time and again he puts her off, and the hurt turns to anger in the quick way she has. He doesn't notice the determined slant to her brow until one night, the Cistern lit only by starlight and the occasional, low-burning torch, he begins to utter his memorized phrase. 

"Sorry lass-"

"Fuck that, Brynjolf." Comes her growl, fast as her hand at his lapel. She jerks him back to her. "Do I not mean anything to you anymore?" 

"Never." He immediately denies.

Because she gave him back his passion, his joy. Had resurrected the Guild that meant so much to him, that he had watched shrivel and die for so long. 

His hand has risen to hold her check without his call, but once there her skin is soft and so _warm_ at his palm, her eyes suddenly softer and younger. Akeed becomes, as he draws up to her, the little thief that had bumbled into town years ago, the hard cast experience has lent to her seeming to tuck itself away.

But that was her hand low on his hip and the Guildmaster's bed coming up at them, and Brynjolf couldn't spare the attention to think so poetically. She sighs at his weight on her front, massaging one thigh against the crotch of his trousers, curling the other around him. Akeed tangles with the sashes and belts of his armor while he praises the gods for her simplier clothing. 

The muscles of her belly shiver at the glide of his fingertips, and her breasts rise into his touch as she breathes. He can feel her laughing-grin against the meat of his cheek, and he mirrors it, lets her feel the slow spread of his lips on her neck. Then he pulls away to kiss her.

The touch is dry and close-mouthed, further pushing the illusion of cowed youth on him. Only when she throws away his jacket will a little too much relish do lips open and allow their breath to mingle. She rakes blunted nails down his chest, curling into him like a delighted cat.

Around them fellow thieves snore and snuffle, resettle as they sleep. Others lie awake or at the threshold, and yet more lounge around the Cistern. Normal hours are not for their ilk. Brynjolf moves to his knees, pulling Akeed by the hips into position. She gives a happy yelp of a laugh at the first drag of his tongue over her, and some daring guildmember wolf-whistles from across the cavern.

Brynjolf grunts and grins into the salt-musk taste on the flat of his tongue as Akeed's legs wrap tightly around his shoulders, one sole stroking approvingly down his back. She squirms in his lap, wiggling one hand past his trouser laces and awkwardly pulling him out into an upside-down hold. 

He rocks ineffectively into her hand, licks her like he picks a lock, aware of every twitch and shudder and adjusting his patterns accordingly. Women have scolded him before for lavishing attention only to the same scant inch, and Brynjolf is not one to forget his lessons. He runs the tip of his tongue along the creases of flesh, around and back down, dipping into her, and returns to press against her clit. Her slickness coats his nose and beard and threatens to run down his neck when she yanks away, hips jerking as she comes. 

She beckons him forward with drunkenly waved hands, fingers akimbo, until he straddles her shoulders. The tip of his cock rests on the soft rise of her lips, and she coos and blows on him, eyes lit and teasing before taking him in.

Her hands, firm on his buttocks prevent him from thrusting too rudely, were he juvenile enough to do so. Her teeth touch in playful warnings, bright sparks in the warm haze that fills his head. She chases wrinkles of skin along his length with her tongue, sucks his head and laughs around him. It's the blunt rub of her finger at his hole that finishes him off, not penetrating but nonetheless threatening to. Brynjolf barely catches himself on shaking arms, and is grateful when Akeed pulls him into a position he can fall asleep in, head nestled by her bare breast, smearing her own liquid onto her skin. 

There's a smattering of applause from the three or four guildmembers awake and aware enough to have kept audience. Akeed stretches lazily in answer, sighs loudly and contentedly while Brynjolf only joys in the long roll of her naked body against his.


End file.
